He wakes up. Yesterday happened. Today is going to happen. An apartment fell through. It is irritating, frustrating, discombobulating, but then he remembers that he has a voucher to get a free custard shake at Shake Shack the next time he visits so he feels marginally less distraught but only marginally. Then he weighs himself and he is unhappy with the result and then he talks to a friend and then he talks to a sibling and then he reads an uplifting letter by E. B. White about the power of continuing, struggling, persevering, even in despite the face of desolate hopelessness. Again he sees monsters and again they look like human beings. All the angels are on strike or they have served as luncheon for the monsters. Even in this hope drought there is still reason to continue just to be stubborn just because it seems like it’s impossible just because it’s difficult. Then he eats some pasta and then he drinks a coffee then he wonders if the world is going to become a place where the young of the poor are farmed for their blood so that the old and the rich can maintain themselves with strong virile bodies forever based on the latest research with mice but he is probably being paranoid then he wonders if this blood will be combined with panda blood so create some kind of super serum that the wealthy will inject once a month as they retire to their armoured enclaves surrounded by automated drones all controlled via wireless electricty by the brain of an immortal Jeff Bezos but again he assumes that he is only being paranoid and then he reads a story about the FBI plotting to assassinate Occupy leaders in Houston, Texas but the evidence seems hidden under thick black lines blindness and unelected jackboots. He looks at trees and he finds their gentle swaying calm him down then he reads a review about a book that talks about race as genetic and he feels less calm and then he eats some chicken and potato that he heated up himself and he needs a nap and his shoulders hurt and he didn’t shower this morning so he smells bad in all the furrowed regions of his body. He pauses. There is time for pausing. “Life Alert definitely saved my mother-in-law’s life that day, no doubt about it.”, says the bitter looking man who knows that his wife’s inheritance will take a few more years to find it’s way into her bank account so that he can then cut the brake cables on her sports car and then wave her away on her regular cliff-top Sunday drive. This is what Life Alert stops. It stops murder in secluded summer houses. It stops nefarious plotting in the urban sprawl. Orson Welles celebrates his 99 years of something or other. He is dead. He is not celebrating anything but he imagines what it would be like for a 99 year old Orson Welles. Let me die, let me die, let me die, decrepit shrivelled wheelchair bound Orson Welles whispers wetly into his ear. He is held together by pain and missed opportunity. By genius and The Sublime. Too much sleep is bad for humans too littls sleep is bad for humans what is the right amount of sleep nobody knows if the right amount is discovered will it allow immortality like the blood of children? He feels that something very bad is approaching. There are injustices. There is inequality. There is a jarring sense of the not quite right about to get far worse. Where is the freedom. Freedom is in the toilet so he goes and sits on the toilet and reads his kindle. Then he goes to sleep. It is probably sleep or a continuation of whatever being awake is.